


The Sleeping Soul of the Country

by pandoras_chaos



Series: The Sleeping Soul of the Country [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is <i>not</i> dead, and the truth will ease all the tension lines running along the breadth of John's shoulders. The truth will derail every bit of self-control John possesses and he will break open, fragment into brilliant pieces of amazing army doctor, flat mate, friend, lover and Sherlock will have the absolute privilege of putting him back together, piece by piece like a jigsaw. Sherlock hopes he gets the chance, someday. Not today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeping Soul of the Country

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to scarletcurls for putting up with my lack of internet for an entire week, and beta-ing for me anyway :)
> 
> This is the third and final part of _The Sleeping Soul of the Country_ series, and undoubtedly the hardest to write. Thanks for bearing with me guys!
> 
> Title borrowed (yet again) from the outstanding Frank Turner.

**The Sleeping Soul of the Country**

 

Sherlock knows he shouldn’t be here. It is far too dangerous, but probability is on his side. Statistically, everyone will be too distracted by his burial to notice him. They all assume he’s dead and therefore won’t be looking for him.

But John, _John_ might look. He half hopes he will. Their connection is strong, but strong enough for this? He is playing with fire and he knows it. The danger of being caught, of _John_ knowing is making adrenaline sing through his veins like cocaine. John is his new drug. Was. John _was_ his new drug.

The thought hits him in the stomach like concrete. Past tense. John _was_ his… everything. John had come into Sherlock's life, unassuming and ordinary and yet he had taken over parts of Sherlock's world that he hadn't even known existed. John had awakened urges in him that were startling and wonderful and terrifying and tedious and _new_. The novelty of having _John_ has still not worn off, will never wear off. To have someone feel for him as deeply and unconditionally as John does is overwhelming. Sherlock had been disconcerted when he realized he cared for John as much as John cared for him. He had never _cared_ for anyone before, aside from the perfunctory familial obligations. He supposes he cares for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but only because they tolerate him and humor him and help him, reluctant has he is to admit that he needs help, occasionally.

Molly has been his one asset, the one person Moriarty had neglected to acknowledge as someone Sherlock cared for and thank god for that. Without her help, Sherlock honestly doesn't know how he would have managed this one final trick. If he is completely honest with himself, Molly never really made it into the forefront of his own mind. Moriarty's mistake. _Sherlock's_ mistake. He is reluctant to take advantage of her now, even though he has blatantly done it many times in the past. He never realized how deep her feelings for him actually ran. He has always been well aware that she found him attractive and that she fancied him, but she actually _loves_ him, and that thought makes him pause. Her devotion to him reminds him strongly of John and the thought is entirely unpleasant.

Sherlock is not a man who is comfortable with touch in general. Before John, he kept himself distant from everybody he'd ever come across. With John, Sherlock always found himself drawn in, like a planet in orbit. His cold harshness thawed and captivated by John's intense warmth. In the starkly logical mind of Sherlock’s intellect, John shines like the sun, warm and glittering and stunning. Sparking up Sherlock’s neurons like fairy lights at Christmas; making him sharper, smarter, brighter by comparison. John’s closeness keeps Sherlock grounded, keeps him human and connected. He hadn't even realized what he was doing, leaning bodily in, encroaching on John's personal space and breathing in his air until John had mentioned it. It had startled Sherlock at first, always so quick and analytical, that he had missed this one glaring imperfection in his own physicality.

Just this morning, when Molly had hugged him, he had momentarily panicked. Nobody ever touches him like this, save John, and Sherlock is not entirely comfortable with the idea. He knew what the proper social response should be and so after a moment of unbearable stiffness, he had tentatively returned her clumsy embrace. He immediately regretted his decision when she then proceeded to weep all over him, but he reminded himself that he owed her cordiality, if nothing else. She is his _friend_ , after all. What an odd sensation.

He often hears people say they'd like to attend their own funeral, but he doesn't expect he'll ever recommend the practice. It's an odd feeling, watching the people who had supposedly known him best mourning him. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were to be expected, but he was startled to see so many people standing around his fake tomb. He'd had a fleeting moment of insecurity when Mycroft rolled up in his car, a sinking feeling of shame and apprehension low in his abdomen. If Mycroft sees him now, there will be no telling the ramifications for his actions. He absolutely should not be here.

But John... John is the worst part. He looks so broken and in such pain. If Sherlock had known his decision would have had such a strong impact, he’s not sure he could have gone through with it. John is absolutely essential and the idea that this might break him, might shake the unflappable foundations of this incredibly strong man is completely abhorrent. Sherlock is disgusted in himself, in his absolute terror that he might lose John. He knows it’s his own fault, and that makes everything unimaginably worse. Sherlock feels his stomach roll in waves of nausea and the bile rising up the back of his throat tastes strongly of self-loathing. It makes him cringe. He should not be here.

But Sherlock cannot bring himself to leave without saying goodbye, even if John will never know. The knowledge that John is standing just on the other side of the cemetery, close enough to reach in a few long-legged strides is making him twitchy and irritable. He aches to reach out to him, to say _something_ , anything really and stop the intense pain fairly radiating off of John in rolling waves. Sherlock swallows against his own swell of unwelcome emotions.

Somehow, this small man has wormed his way into Sherlock's brain, into his _heart_ and refused to budge. Now it is hard to recall his life before John. There are certainly aspects of his previous life that he would gladly delete if he didn't have immediate use for them: his education, his family, his blundering university experiences, his drug usage. Things John erased and replaced and completely eradicated just by being there. By loving him. They'd never said it, though Sherlock would have shouted it from the top of the Eye if he thought it might be useful. It would have made this all much worse, though. So much worse.

He shouldn’t be here. The temptation is too much. The absolute _need_ to reach out and touch, to reassure John, to stop the ache in his chest, the tremor in his left hand. It’s too much. This is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

John’s voice, broken and so small, speaking to him through the layers of grief and longing: “I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much.”

I owe you. I _owe_ you. _I OWE YOU_. Sherlock shudders, but pushes the echoes aside. _John_ is far more important. Moriarty is dead, but there is still the lingering threat. He _cannot_ lose John.

“No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don’t... be... dead. Would you…? Just for me, just stop it. Stop _this_.”

John's voice is more defeated than Sherlock's ever heard it and that fact breaks something inside Sherlock, something he didn't know was frail and brittle, able to be shattered so completely. The cracks in his facade are showing and he knows it. John will look up. John will _see_.

But John doesn’t look up. He… walks away. Sherlock’s heart is pounding hard against his ribs, a caged animal begging for escape. Perhaps if it beats loud enough, John will hear it? He will turn and see Sherlock, alive with a fully beating heart, a pulse in his wrist and no blood on his face.

Perhaps. But John doesn't turn. He doesn't see. He doesn't do anything but walk away, a slight stutter in his right leg on every other step.

Sherlock watches him go, every iota of his considerable mind warring with his body. The more traitorous part of him wants to run after John, to turn him and demand that he _look_ , that he _know_ , that he _understand_. His fingers twitch to touch the grey-blonde hair at the base of John's skull, coarser and more textured than on the rest of his head.

He had never said it. Not that it would have made a difference. In fact, it would probably make things inevitably worse. Could he have done it if the sentiment was spoken aloud? Possibly, but it would have hurt John more. Perhaps.

He is speaking in probabilities now. No hard evidence. Nothing to prove that John will be irrevocably broken. That he has left Sherlock as surely as Sherlock has left him. It's probable though.

Moriarty was right. He was absolutely right and the admission tastes like acid on the back of his tongue. In jumping off that rooftop, in _hurting John_ , he had inadvertently cut out his own heart and left it to burn in the sun, pinned to the pavement by the weight of his decision. He aches in places he didn't know existed, which is a patently impossible statement, as he'd dissected enough cadavers in his life to catalogue every cavern in the human body. He knows the highways of arteries and ventricles, knows how anatomy is put together like so much stacked porcelain: incredibly strong and yet unbearably brittle.

He knows how John's body fits like intricate puzzle pieces with his own, concave diaphragm fitting snugly against Sherlock's convex pelvis. How he slotted so easily into John's life, his _body_ that it was as though they were made to fit together always.

The first time they had touched, _really_ touched, is branded into Sherlock’s brain, searing across his grey matter in four solid and sturdy letters. John had been gentle, tentative, but Sherlock was having none of it. He hadn’t waited thirty five years for someone to touch him like this, though he had deleted everyone and everything except the basic facts. None of that mattered anyway, because even if the details had been there, if they had been tangible and recalled, John would have erased them all with his look of astonished desire. His eyes had been so expressive, so bewildered at the fact that he was allowed to touch, to taste, to feel. Sherlock had been lost in sensation, memorizing every aspect, too many details and yet not enough. Never enough.

Sherlock had watched with his own sense of wonderment as this strong, capable man had lain down for him, had welcomed him into his mind, his body, his _heart_. Sherlock can still feel the pulsing sensations low in his abdomen as John arched his head back and moaned Sherlock’s name like it was the only word sensual enough to encompass everything he was feeling. When Sherlock had come that first time, it felt like his whole body was breaking apart, shattering into a billion crystalline pieces, reshaping and reforming to make something stronger, better, more whole in the reflection of John’s love.

With John beside him, Sherlock could take on the world. With John beside him, Sherlock was a better man. With John beside him, Sherlock finally _felt_ something more to his ridiculous existence. With John beside him, Sherlock was whole.

Now John is walking away and Sherlock can feel the weight of the universe on his shoulders again, heavy and unrelenting in its constant demands for his genius. John was a buffer, keeping the idiotic populous at bay with his easy smile and charming nature. John was his conscience, keeping him human when the racing pulses of his brain activity made him callous and harsh. John was his companion, deftly taking all of Sherlock’s tiny imperfections and idiosyncrasies in stride without even batting an eyelash. John was his lover, shaping Sherlock’s body into new and terrifying desires that had him gasping for breath and reaching for release. John was his _life_.

But Sherlock had left his life, bleeding and broken on the pavement just outside St. Bartholomew’s. He had left his heart, choking and gasping around overwhelming emotion, the steady, slurred litany of _he’s my friend, he’s my friend_ sliding over his skin and stabbing deeply into his gut.

He had never said it.

He catches the faint scent of damp wool, PG Tips and antiseptic and feels his knees buckle. Nobody is here to watch him fall this time. Nobody here to judge him as he crumbles, foundations quaking and dissolving to dust. John would know. John would see. John would understand.

But he doesn't. He walks away, unspoken words sliding away through the grass like so many snakes, lisping tongues and slithering elegance. Sherlock wishes again that he could be better, be like John. A _good_ person. Always on the side of the angels, but not one of them. Never one of them.

Sherlock will keep John, a little talisman in the wide open cavity of his chest, where his heart should be. He will keep John whole and alive in perfect memories of imperfection and warmth. He will keep the scent of his hair in a little box to open and examine on cold nights when he is alone and half-mad with longing. He will keep the taste of John's skin, sweet and loving in a little box behind his teeth, where he can run over it with his tongue and worry the frayed edges of memory. He will keep the sound of John's voice, ragged and harsh and panting, or angry and rapt and trembling, or laughing and loving and sweet in a little box behind his left ear so he can tuck it behind his curls. He will keep the feeling of John's body, wrapped tightly around his, limbs trembling and strained, arching into him as he comes apart at the seams.

Whenever Sherlock closes his eyes, he will see John: his talisman, his conscious, his friend, his lover. When Sherlock sleeps, he will dream of John, head thrown back and lips panting, promising him everything and nothing with every gasp and moan. He can still taste John on the back of his tongue, bitter salt and musky pheromones. He wonders silently if he'll ever taste him again, if he will have the chance to explain, someday.

He can still remember the feeling of John in him and around him, sweat slick and blood hot. He can taste the desperation in the air as he fucked John slowly in their bed for the last time, frantically clinging to hopes of tomorrow, of balancing this last final problem with the weight of his intellect. He remembers the slow slide of his slick cock, invading John's body as he demanded every part of this incredible and remarkable man, staking his claim in bruising kisses and unspoken tenderness. John's eyes had been so dilated, pupils blown so wide that the black had completely swallowed the dark blue, melding together into wide pools of desire and love.

He had almost said it then. He’d felt the unfamiliar words, rolled the shape of them around on his tongue, flicking the consonants against the back of his teeth, but he had swallowed them back. John knew, even if it wasn’t said. At least, he’d thought John had known.

Uncertainty is not a response Sherlock is accustomed to. This churning doubt in his gut making his hands shake and sweat roll down his temples. If John somehow misunderstood, if he had thought Sherlock incapable of sentiment, would he live through this separation? Sherlock thinks hard about the conversation he’d overheard, crowded into Molly’s stuffy bathroom. John had sounded so broken, so devastated that it was all Sherlock could do to keep his place behind the closed door. Then she had said it, that one word ringing through the haze of pain and grief, and John had frozen, his voice suddenly harsh and cold. _No. He didn’t._

Of course, it could just be an emotional response. People said and did things like that when they’d lost someone they had cared about. Sherlock has seen it a million times: weeping widows lashing out at their late husbands, enumerating all of their faults and forgetting momentarily about the reasons they had stayed. Surely John doesn’t think Sherlock had done this because of him? The uncertainty tastes foul and acrid and Sherlock finds himself swallowing around the sudden obstruction in his throat. John will understand, he _has_ to.

Sherlock runs the tips of his fingers along the solid lump of ceramic in the pocket of his coat. He knows Molly won’t mind and it had been too tempting, having this one physical piece of evidence that John had cared. He imagines he can still feel the warmth of John’s lips, etched forever onto the rim of the mug. He expects there will be countless cups of tea, coffee, Pot Noodles sipped and consumed out of this unremarkable piece of crockery in the coming months, but the outside rim, just to the right of the handle will always taste of John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and allows the memories to cascade over him, warm and comforting as a blanket through the heavy gloom of the day. One day, he hopes John will understand. One day, he hopes John will forgive him. Because Sherlock is not dead. He is not a fraud. He is not buried under two meters of earth, cold and immovable. He is alive and unharmed and yet so broken he can barely stand.

It shouldn't _hurt_. Why does it hurt? There's nothing in his considerable memory database to prepare him for this. It hasn't hurt this much since he'd seen John wrapped in enough semtex to wipe out an entire city block. John is remarkable and ordinary and wonderful and... crying. The realization makes Sherlock's bones quake. It wasn't meant to _hurt_. It was meant to _save_.

John doesn't look back, doesn't see, and somehow that is wrong. So cosmically wrong that Sherlock nearly shouts out, nearly runs forward and claims John's lips just as easily as he'd claimed his heart. Because Sherlock is _not_ dead, and the truth will ease all the tension lines running along the breadth of John's shoulders. The truth will derail every bit of self-control John possesses and he will break open, fragment into brilliant pieces of amazing army doctor, flat mate, friend, lover and Sherlock will have the absolute privilege of putting him back together, piece by piece like a jigsaw. Sherlock hopes he gets the chance, someday. Not today.

He watches as John slots into the sleek black car Mycroft provided for him, next to Mrs. Hudson who is trembling on the plush leather seats. He watches as John leaves the graveyard, the black speck of the car winding along the small road until it turns onto the A304, joining the other vehicles, moving like blood cells in the arteries of concrete and mortar.

 _Look after him_ , he had said to Molly just this morning. He knows John is more than capable of providing protection, but it is comforting to know that someone will protect him from himself. He can trust Molly, he knows. She will never let it slip, never betray his trust, even in the face of such unbearable grief and heartache. He will count on Molly’s discretion and her unending loyalty. He has no other options.

Gathering his remaining strength and conviction, Sherlock turns his back on the smooth black headstone. It doesn’t matter now, nothing does. Sherlock will fight and he will win and when he returns, John will understand. John _must_ understand.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispers, words carrying on the wind and catching in his throat. “Please forgive me.”

The journey ahead is not going to be easy, and for the first time in eighteen months, he will have to go it alone. He will prevail, and John will forgive him. However long it takes, John will be waiting for him when he returns.

 

 

_We are electric pulses_

_In the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country_

_~I am Disappeared, Frank Turner_


End file.
